The Poetry Corner


By Paul Laurence Dunbar

Oh, who would be sad tho' the sky be a-graying, And meadow and woodlands are empty and bare; For softly and merrily now there come playing, The little white birds thro' the winter-kissed air. The squirrel's enjoying the rest of the thrifty, He munches his store in the old hollow tree; Tho' cold is the blast and the snow-flakes are drifty He fears the white flock not a whit more than we. Chorus: Then heigho for the flying snow! Over the whitened roads we go, With pulses that tingle, And sleigh-bells a-jingle For winter's white birds here's a cheery heigho!